Last Friday we had to return Mom’s car (which we had started to affectionately call “Rita”) to it’s home in Brockville. Sharkboy and I ventured out in both Mom and Dad’s cars, the plan being that we would get to Brockvegas Friday night, spend the night and drive straight from there to the campground for the year-end Seasies awards on Saturday night (more later). I have no clue how anyone could even survive even one day of commuting from the downtown core to somewhere east of the city because it took us a solid hour to get from Bloor and the DVP to the 401 and Markham Rd. (for you unwashed, non-car or out of towners, that drive should only take 15-20 min no stopping). Toronto city roads are broken.

Anyway, just outside Bellville, just past the service station, at 9:30pm is where the tire went. I was behind a mini-van in the passing lane, a 16-wheeler in the slow lane and three cars who had managed to get between my Bonneville and Sharkboy’s Civic, by speeding at 140km/hr. I was boxed in. Suddenly, the mini-van in front of me swerves violently to avoid… something. The primal brain brain in me was asleep and all I was able to do was say “What the fuck…?” and by the time I got “Fuck” out of my mouth, I had run over whatever it was (A rock? A tire part from the 18 wheeler? A possum?) with the passenger side front tire.

Thump!

I got “Jesus, I hit it…” past my lips and immediately the oh so familiar vibration of dead tire shook the car. 23 years of driving and suddenly all my driver’s ed learned back in grade 11 kicked in. I reduced speed as I veered left into the median shoulder. My hand hit the 4-way flashers and gripped the wheel as I could feel the rim of the dead tire kiss ashphalt. Cars whizzed by me. I stopped within how many metres, I don’t know.

Wide eyed and white knuckled, I peeled my hands from the wheel and calmly turned off my iPod.

I sat for a moment and said “fuck” about 30 times.

I look down the road and see that Sharkboy had indeed seen that I had gone off the road and was on the same shoulder with his 4-ways on. At the time he was trying to reach me on my cell, but the call wasn’t going through. If it had I would have screamed.

I came out of the shock to see that I was OK, I was on the passing lane shoulder on the top of a hill and on the beginning of a bridge. Probably the worst place to get out and change a tire. I waited for an opening (it was crazy busy for this stretch of highway at this time of night) and scooted over to the slow lane median and started to get off the bridge, drivingwobbly on a dead tire.

After the calls to Mom, Dad and CAA, we were deposited in Napanee’s Canadian Tire parking lot at 11:30pm. If you don’t have CAA roadside assistance, I really suggest you do. The mechanic was great and friendly. When asked where we wanted to be towed (the spare mini-tire didn’t keep it’s pressure longer than 5 min) he gave us options and finished off with “I will take you to a place where you are within your comfort zone.” Wha? I guess he could see I was coming down from the stress of nearly getting killed in a firey 401 crash.

We took Rita to the downtown core of Napanee and booked ourselves into The Twin Peaks Motel. “Two beds, right?” the night clerk said. Twice. To be sure. I then posted that last cryptic post to my blog using the remaining power on my PSP.

As we’re just about to turn off the light, Sharkboy says “Do you feel fleas?”

I did. Ugh.

Our trip onward to Brockville and Mom’s place went without a hitch, but we were unable to stop in Kingston to meet with Andy, the gentleman who will be hitchin’ us (Sorry Andy!). Three points of fun for the trip from Brockvegas to The Point Trailer Resort: When I started up the car after it’s repairs, New Order’s Shell Shock played on the iPod. I won an iPod Shuffle in a road side vending machine and Sharkboy won $100 at the Brantford Charity Casino. We were lucky!

At the campground, we were just in time for the park’s annual Seasies Awards, the tounge-not-so-in-cheek, passive-aggressive, clique-y acknowledgment of various person/s who did stuff around the park. Did Sharkboy and I get a nod for all the mornings we cleaned, vacuumed and opened that pool? Hell no! They thanked the volunteers and the guy who was suppose to be cleaning the pool every morning, who we took over his duties for, because he was DJ-ing the night before and couldn’t get up at 8am. No mention of our work, not even the website overhaul which put me out about $1500 if I were to charge for it. So needless to say I sat there, on the pool table (no more seats in the Rec Hall) and grumbled in my head about how next year we are so not helping out at all! when suddenly something bumped into my thigh.

I was being head-butted by a kitten. An orange short hair, about 8 months old. Skinnier than Nicole Ritchie at a feather convention, and 10000x cuter. I looked around. No owner, but I was being watched by a few people. It immediately crawled into my lap and fell asleep as Miss Point went into her rendition of Where the Boys Are.

Cute. Over. Load.

They say you don’t choose cats, they choose you. The scuttlebutt from around the campground was that he showed up Friday, coming out of the woods unannounced, like the second coming of Jesus and started to beg for food from various trailers. The fact that he entered the Rec Hall with over 200 people milling about and jumped into my lap says volumes. We fed him, got him a warm place to sleep in the back seat of Da’s car, safe from raccoons and drunks and looked in on him all night. He slept for 24 hours solid. And then ate. then slept. He even slept when we drove to town to get our morning coffee, which was weird. Usually cats hate cars but this guy was quiet and comfy in the back seat.

Sunday after breakfast was the point where I “came down” from the stress of the last 36 hours. I fell asleep in the tent with the little guy snugly in my arms for two hours solid. I swear if you’re an insomniac, get a friendly purring kitten. Yes, there are pictures of me hugging the cat. Expect them soon.

Much to our better judgement, we brought him home. Should we have left him at the campground? Was he a “barn cat” and could he make the adjustment to apartment living? Did someone miss him? Time will tell. He’s doing better this morning – I got him to play with a ball of tinfoil for a bit and he finally had a solid poo this morning with much ballyhoo from Sharkboy and I. I was worried that if he was feral he might not take to an apartment and litter box, but he seems to be OK. We’re going to take him into the vet for a check up later this week.

So what to name him? I want to take AP’s (from Not Well Planned) naming convention and call him George Lucas or Ted Danson so that whenever he cleans himself we can point and say “Ted Danson is licking himself again!”

Any suggestions?